Regarding Memories

I was seated at the porch like any other day. I was waiting for something to happen while the sun was burning my skin with no regret. I do not remember quite certain what I was expecting or if whether I was waiting for something special, or if I was decidedly objecting some substantial instance that would change my present moment of being steady, seated — waiting.

The past figure from my childhood is a bit blurry; the act of reaching hidden memories only evoke, at least for me, feelings. Some ditched places, but always feelings. If those memories were recalled now or twenty years ago, what actually score my mind are the ubiquitous beliefs of how I understood a fight, a lesson learned at school, of how ashamed I felt when I did something considered wrong, or whatever that, for some reason, designated my personality.

They are blurry memories, yes, indeed. However, what I do remember is that I was as any other child. Confused, hyperactive, curious, shy at sometimes, explosive at many times, wanting to seize my childhood as grist for time to finally become an adult and lose that naive circumstance that was ripping the responsibility from me. I wanted to pay my bills, to have my own house, my job, to suffer from love, to be loved, rejected, to jump my teenage years and to finally become what I am now.

I was waiting for that early-far moment to mislay the bright fortune of being radiant young, floodlit, an artless being, and to be converted and reduced into a downcast neoliberal slave of the state. A Cimmerian inclination to the order; maybe I was taught and modeled since my mom’s belly to be the antonym child clutch eventually.

Without regard to, as it is, the child never lived.